My Story

by Ronald Kray

  I told him they were for my friend’s mother and I wanted his permission to get them sent.

  ‘Well, Kray,’ the bastard sneered, ‘permission is refused.’

  Just like that. And that, as far as he was concerned, was the end of the matter. I could’ve smashed him to a pulp, but I didn’t. All I did was swear at him and that cost me another seven days in chokey [solitary confinement]. Another week locked up by myself, twenty-three hours a day, basic rations. After that it was downhill all the way, more trouble, more fights.

  In my time at Parkhurst they did me for about twenty assaults and one charge of GBH. But that was only what they did me for. In the seven years I was in Parkhurst I got involved in a lot more scraps than that. I also smashed up my cell a few times in frustration. Really did it over. I couldn’t help myself.

  When I was in solitary confinement, which was a lot, they used to lock me in what they called the Strongbox. And that’s just what it was, really. It was a room, but it was built in the shape of a small box. It was really dark and claustrophobic. The whole room was made of concrete, including a little bed in the middle. They used to give me one blanket. Sometimes I didn’t even get that. I used to have to sleep on the slab of cold stone that was the bed. It was not a nice place. There was a tiny exercise yard well away from the other prisoners, to keep me separate.

  The screws were bastards. Cruel bastards. There was one kind man, a medical officer called David Cooper. He let me take a radio to the Strongbox, to give me a bit of company. Funnily enough, at the end of my time in Parkhurst, it was on that radio that I heard I was being moved to Broadmoor. They announced it on the BBC radio news - and I was listening to it in the Strongbox.

  But all that was a long time after my row with the assistant governor over sending flowers to the funeral of Pete GattrelPs mother. That was really the turning point for me. That was when I really started to go downhill. Fast. I sank into a hell of a depression, the worst I’ve ever known. All I could see was years and years in front of me as a Category A con with constant supervision, restricted visits, no perks, and constant harassment. It was just a hopeless existence. My paranoia was getting worse all the time; my head hurt me, the pain was bad. I could feel the walls closing in on me, I could feel trouble all around me, I felt round every comer someone was waiting to jump me. I had some more fights with screws, more chokey, and then I had a real bad fight with another con. I can’t remember what it was about, but I think I hurt him bad. After that they gave up on me. The medical officer at Parkhurst said I was insane, said I was a menace and they were going to get rid of me. On 25 July 1979, they did. They sent me to Broadmoor. And do you know something? When they told me I was coming here, when they told me they were going to send me to a lunatic asylum, I was pleased. For me it meant seven years of hell at Parkhurst were over. You see, I knew what they didn’t know, what they never bothered to try and find out, because they didn’t really care. I knew I was sick, really sick. When I came to Broadmoor the doctors here explained to me, for the first time in my life, that I am a chronic paranoid schizophrenic. That doesn’t mean I’m a raving lunatic, because I’m not. But it does mean I am ill and need medical help. Since then I’ve done a lot of reading up on illness of the mind. The doctors here encourage you to learn about your illness, to try and understand it. That way you have more of a chance of beating it, or at least coming to terms with it, living with it.

  The difference is that Broadmoor is a hospital, it is not a prison. It is a hospital for the criminally insane. It comes under the Health department, not the Home Office, though the Home Office has to grant permission for a patient’s release. The staff here are not warders, they are nurses. Because it is a hospital, someone like me has a much better chance of the right care and attention. In prison, someone like me is just regarded as a headbanger, a trouble-maker.

  This kind of approach to mental illness is fairly new and it doesn’t work with all patients, but it has helped me. My own reading has told me that schizophrenia means I have a split personality, a mind that can work in two ways virtually at the same time. Schizophrenia causes severe depression and that creates other problems. In my case when I’m going into a depression, going into one, as I call it, one part of my mind creates suspicion, really bad suspicion that becomes paranoia. If I see two people talking together, my mind tells me they could be talking about me, could be plotting about me. Then my brain will tell me to go and stop them. It doesn’t matter how, but they must be stopped. It’s something, I now realize, that I have suffered from for many, many years, maybe for most of my life. It sounds simple, but it isn’t. The most difficult thing about mental illness is trying to work out in your mind what is normal and what isn’t normal, what is right and what isn’t right. Believe me, insanity is a terrible sensation. They have shown me at Broadmoor how to recognize when I am going into one, how to read the signs, how to control the paranoia I feel by taking drugs. I now know what medication to take and when to take it. With the help of my drugs I have learned how to control my madness, if that’s what you want to call it.

  My schizophrenia would have started very early in my life, as it does with most people. And the simple fact is, it was something beyond my control. There was nothing I could have done about it. Most schizophrenics have ancestors or relations with mental disorders. In my own case, my own mental problems may be traced back to my great grandfather, Critcha Lee, who was a gypsy and a cattle dealer from Bermondsey and died in Claybury madhouse. My grandfather’s brother, who they called Jewy, also died there. I have traced back our family roots a long way and my earliest ancestors probably came from Austria - even today, the surname Kray is quite common in the Salzburg area. But it does seem that the family have had a lot of mental problems over the years, although both my parents were very sane and normal people.

  But what causes schizophrenia? I have read up on it and a child can be a schizophrenic even before it is bom. Something goes wrong in the chemistry of a baby’s body, even when it is still inside its mother, but the problems don’t show up until a lot later. You can tell kids who may be schizophrenic - kids who are backward, or precocious, or day-dreamers, or kids who fly into tempers. I wasn’t backward but I suppose I always had a bit of a temper on me. I still do, but I can usually control it with willpower and drugs.

  I know about my drugs and I know about the ways in which they help me. I take Stemetol capsules four times a day to quieten my nerves. I also take Disipal which is for the side-effects caused by the Stemetol, which sometimes makes my limbs shake and difficult to control. Every fortnight I have an injection of Modicate, which is a drug specifically to curb the symptoms of schizophrenia. It stops the bad dreams and the depressions.

  What none of them can cure - what nothing can cure - when I’m going into one is the terrible feeling of loneliness. You see, drugs can only do so much. The most important thing for a mentally ill person is their peace of mind. Some of the poor people who suffer from mental illness never have peace of mind. They suffer in their minds all their lives, they are tormented souls. There are some terrible cases here at Broadmoor, men and women who are so badly disturbed in their minds that they never recover. These people deserve pity and understanding, not condemnation. That’s why patients in Broadmoor rarely gang up on other patients. Why even men like Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper, are relatively safe here, which they wouldn’t be in a prison. Because the patients here know that other patients cannot help the things they have done.

  Some people do get better, some regain such control over their own minds that they are released. I like to think I am among those winning the battle against this illness, but it’s a long and lonely road. Patients can see for themselves how well, or how badly, they are doing. Every few years each one goes before a mental health tribunal which decides how well he or she is progressing, and whether the patient is in a state of mind where freedom or a change of hospital would be suitable. That hasn’t happened to me yet. But I know that things are
getting better. I’ll tell you why. When I had a review in June 1983, it wasn’t good. Dr D. Tidmarsh, who was my consultant psychiatrist, wrote this:

  Ronald Kray is a chronic schizophrenic. In what for him is the unstressful environment of Broadmoor his illness does not become florid and its symptoms are, more or less, controlled by medication. I am sure, however, that he would relapse if he were under stress, as he would be if he were returned to prison. As he is the first to admit, he can no longer stand the pace of prison or, I believe, the competition from younger prisoners and, in that environment, I am sure he would decompensate rapidly with the risk of further violence.

  Like I say, not a great report. But when I went before the review tribunal in 1991, this is what they said:

  Dr Ferris reported well upon this patient and it is clear that his psychotic condition is now well controlled by medication and by the patient’s own insight into any early onset of his illness.

  I still didn’t get freedom, of course, or even a move to a softer hospital, but that, to me, was a good report and proof to me that I do understand my own mind better than I ever did.

  All the patients here get visits and checks from social workers and they put in their own reports on us. I have managed to get hold of a recent report on me by a senior social worker called Mrs Carol Parkinson. She said about me:

  Mr Kray’s wife, Kate, visits her husband on a regular basis and offers him support. Mr Kray also has a considerable number of friends who write and visit. Mr Kray has recently transferred to a new ward in the hospital where he seems to have settled in well. He works four mornings each week in the kitchen gardens and spends the rest of his time listening to music or reading on the wards. When eventually discharged, Mr Kray hopes to live with his wife in a house in the country. He presently requires regular medication to control the symptoms of mental illness and it would therefore seem in his best clinical interest to remain in Broadmoor for the foreseeable future.

  So I know, from that, that I am still going to be here for some time, maybe for ever. That doesn’t worry me. But I would like to get out one day, go and live in the country and travel to places like India and Africa. I have had a premonition that I won’t ever be set free, a very real premonition. But, on the other hand, one of the doctors here told a friend of mine that I could be set free one day. I just don’t know.

  I will never forget the day I came to Broadmoor, because no patient ever does. It was a lovely sunny day in 1979, and I thought the sunshine was a good omen. I couldn’t wait to get here. When they threw me out of Parkhurst it was one of the happiest days of my life. They brought me here in a van with five screws. I remember we came over on the ferry from Ryde to Portsmouth - me stuck in the prison van all the way, of course - and when we got to Portsmouth there was a screw from Parkhurst on the harbour side waiting to travel back to the Isle of Wight.

  The driver of the prison van stopped to talk to this screw and I heard the screw say: ‘Who’ve you got in there, then? Another fucking geriatric?’ They all had a good laugh about that, but I thought it was me who was having the last laugh. I was getting away from Parkhurst, they were stuck with the Godforsaken place. I remember arriving here. I can remember the van driving off the main road into what seemed to be a big park. Then, through the tiny window in the side of the van, I saw a big sign on a white board: ‘Broadmoor Special Hospital. Private Property’.

  We drove up a hill which seemed to get steeper and steeper.

  There were some beautiful tall trees. Pine trees. Right at the top of the hill it seemed to get dark, like the trees were closing in, and then I saw the hospital for the first time. It was big. Big and silent. Depressing, really. All dark red bricks and high walls. Nowadays, they tell me, the hospital has a smart entrance hall, but when I came here none of that existed. We drove through two huge wooden doors and then through some giant padlocked gates into the main courtyard. It was real quiet, a bit spooky, and there seemed to be no one around. Just big blocks, the hospital wards, all around the courtyard. I was taken to what they call the admission ward and met by some nurses and a social worker. I was weighed and my height was measured and then I was told to get into a bath. The male nurses, the screws, stood watching me all the time. The heavy atmosphere, the staff presence, is deliberate: it’s designed to have a psychological effect of intimidation on potentially troublesome patients. It works.

  After my bath I was given a cup of tea, and locked up in a bare room about nine feet long and six feet wide, with just a mattress on the floor and some bedding. There was a big, wooden shutter across the window, so there was no light. Only the electric light bulb which was never turned off. Next to the door was a slit through which the staff could stand and watch you. An hour before the night staff came on duty I was unlocked and given a cigarette, and they told me what would happen to me over the next few weeks. They told me that the first few days and weeks at Broadmoor are the most difficult for every patient - but how he reacted to them would affect his whole future in the hospital. I remembered Nobby Clark’s words: If you behave yourself, it’s heaven. If you don’t behave yourself …

  The admission floor was on the bottom of Somerset House, where I eventually finished up living for many years. Everyone has to come through the admission ward. The daily routine here was weird and hard to get used to. In the morning we were unlocked at seven o’clock. We slopped out - got rid of our own urine and excrement, our own mess from the night before - then had a wash and a shave, and had to line up while we waited for the razors to be counted. They weren’t taking any chances because a lot of patients have suicidal tendencies.

  When this was over, I and the other new arrivals went into the day room, where we just sat all day until nine o’clock at night. Again, the system is designed to put you under psychological pressure, so the staff can assess how you react. Make a wrong move and life would be harder in the future. The rooms, like all the buildings here in those days, were drab and depressing. Relics from another age. They should all have been condemned years ago. They were all like poorhouses. To use the toilet you had to be escorted there and back by a screw, who stood and waited for you outside the cubicle and stuck his head over the top if he thought you were taking too long. If you had a bath you were given six inches of water in case you tried to drown yourself and the screws, the nurses, were watching all the time. It was humiliating.

  In the day room, there were five rows of chairs across the room, and a television set at the end. Down the side of the room was a line of blue chairs where the staff sat and watched our every move. They were there, as well, to listen to our conversation. But no one said much, so that was a waste of time. Also in the day room was a small table and chair where you could write letters, and a small snooker table. That’s all. That was to be my life for the next three months.

  Just off the day room was the dining hall, and the thing that surprised me was, the food was not bad. Plain, simple food, like that in hospital, but not bad. And we had china cups and proper knives and forks. The food was better than in prison, where we never had proper knives and forks, either, just plastic ones. Breakfast was at eight, lunch at twelve, tea at five. After every meal all the knives and forks were counted. For obvious reasons, before we were moved back into the day room.

  A few weeks on, after washing and breakfast I was given a few odd jobs to do, and I just dragged the jobs out as long as I could, made them last as long as possible, to cut down the boredom of the endless days doing nothing.

  During those early weeks and months you are seen by an endless stream of doctors, psychologists, education officers and social workers - and assessed by them all. The simple, basic rules of the hospital are explained to you. Behave yourself, and you will get privileges: a better room in a softer block, the freedom to work where you want, the use of a radio. Misbehave, and you are in bother. Serious bother. You will be put in solitary confinement. In Norfolk House, the punishment block. Word had gone round about Norfolk House, the ‘House of Correct
ion’ as some members of the staff cynically call it. The hospital prefers to call it the intensive cafe unit. Call it what you want, it’s a bad place to be. It is still the most feared part of the hospital. It looks and is a frightening place. There are rumours about Norfolk House, but I have no proof of anyone being physically abused in there, or being abused with drugs, as others have claimed. But the psychological pressure and intimidation inside that building has to be experienced to be realized. I believe that you could go in there sane and come out mad. The rules are simple - attack another patient and you will get at least forty-eight hours in solitary; attack a nurse and you will get at least a week. In the old days patients could spend weeks, months, even years in Norfolk House. Some, it’s said, never came out again.

  Only once, in the early days, did I step out of line, and they put me into Norfolk House for five months. I started getting into fights with screws. I was silly. After that I chose a more sensible path and I have not been back since. Norfolk House is ugly. From behind its barred windows you can hear the cries of the patients. Cries of anguish. The torment of pain. Not physical pain but something far worse - mental agony.

  I got through my first three months on the admission ward and was then taken to Somerset House, or Block C as it was called in those days. This was a total contrast to what I had just experienced. Somerset House had its own rules, ward policies and regulations, of course, but it was known as one of the friendlier houses in the hospital and I soon settled into it. My new life had begun and I began to adapt to it.

  CHAPTER SIX: This Is My Life

  ‘Half the population of Broadmoor could be discharged - the problem is knowing which half.’

  Former Broadmoor Medical Officer

  The story of Broadmoor is as complex and controversial as the place itself. Only when you study its past do you realize why it is the way it is today. Did you know, for example, that Broadmoor was originally built because of a madman with a gun and a king of England who later became mad? As Michael Caine might say, not many people know that!